


Shreds and Patches (tumblr minific compilation)

by FearNoEvil



Category: Henry IV Part 1 - Shakespeare, Les Misérables - All Media Types, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - World War II, Babies, Drinking, F/M, Family Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Hugs, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Just Add Kittens, Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Romance, Suspense
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:22:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27171694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FearNoEvil/pseuds/FearNoEvil
Summary: By now I've written a fair amount of random little Mini Fics for various friends and prompts on tumblr, so I figured why not compile them all in one place?  The stories might be mildly edited for phrasing/typos from their originally-posted versions.  Each chapter should be labelled with the fandom and characters for ease of access.I will update as I write more.
Relationships: Courfeyrac & Enjolras (Les Misérables), Earl of Douglas & Henry "Hotspur" Percy, Henry "Hotspur" Percy/Kate Percy, Les Amis de l'ABC Friendship, Pavel Chekov & Montgomery "Scotty" Scott
Comments: 4
Kudos: 4





	1. Chekov & Scotty take a break (Star Trek)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For tumblr user @dwarven-beard-spores, who requested Chekov with "a moment's respite"

There was rarely a dull moment aboard the USS Enterprise, under the command of Captain James T. Kirk. Working in Starfleet meant making snap decisions that affected millions of lives, it meant keeping up and being heard and contributing, in his third language, among men twice his age, and it meant being prepared at any moment for danger and disaster and reacting to it with care and professionalism. Chekov wanted to say he’d accepted it, that he was used to it. He wanted to say it never got to him, that he was steady and unflappable, a true Russian, unmoved by life’s unending barrage of challenges. But that would be a lie.

He found himself on the transporter pad, beside Commander Spock and Mr. Sulu, three bloody Klingons drooping from their arms, his feet snapping to attention before his brain even processed those barked orders, dragging their wounded guests to the med bay and Dr. McCoy’s practiced hands. As he lay the wounded alien down, he felt his hands shaking with tension. He nearly jumped when he felt a hand touch his shoulder from behind.

It was the Captain. “Debrief in ten minutes, Mr. Chekov,” he said shortly, and just as shortly turned to stride away, conferring rapidly with Commander Spock on what was to be done about these troubling Klingon abductions.

“Aye, Captain,” he responded to their vanishing backs. He tripped out into the hallway, leaned against the wall, and let out a long, weary breath.

“You alright, lad?” asked a voice, and his eyes snapped open to see Mr. Scott, who’d followed them from the transporter room.

“Aye,” the young ensign replied again, with a vigorous nod. “It is only – a trying day.”

“Ten minutes is an age on a long day,” replied Mr. Scott matter-of-factly, taking Chekov’s arm and leading him down the hall. “Come sit down.” And indeed, Mr. Scott guided him into a room, clapped him down into a chair, and was now pouring him a glass of fine Scotch whiskey.

“Th-thank you, Mr. Scott,” he said thickly, bringing the cup to his lips.

“You looked like you could do with it,” the engineer shrugged, grinning as he poured his own glass and watched Chekov take his first tentative swallow. 

He finished swallowing with mild difficulty. “I’m – sorry, to be so –” He waved his hand hopelessly – he couldn’t conjure up any right word, especially not in English.

“Don’t be,” Mr. Scott replied kindly. “You’re doing fine, you know. And you don’t get used to this job overnight – but you will. I promise you will.”

Chekov smiled gratefully and took another sip, a slower, smaller, and consequently pleasanter, one. They remained in amiable chat, with Mr. Scott doing most of the talking, for a few more minutes. Chekov felt his throat relax, his hands steady, his mind surrender a moment from these constant demands.

Then the Captain’s voice crackled over the speaker, “Extraction team in my office for debrief, now!” 

Chekov rose to his feet quickly and handed his empty glass back to Mr. Scott. “Thank you again, sir.”

Mr. Scott smiled broadly as he watched the boy depart. “Good luck, lad.”


	2. Hotspur/Kate comfort from nightmares - 1 Henry IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for tumblr user @skeletonrichard who requested Katespur with "an absent look or touch"

The fire was smoldering down to ash in the hearth, and Lady Kate Percy poked it impatiently. The evening chill had set in and she’d prefer it to burn as long as possible.

Behind her, on the bed, Harry thrashed violently to one side and murmured something urgent.

“What’s that, my lord?” she asked, uselessly, turning toward him. But no good; he was still asleep, talking to a phantom in his mind - a challenge to Scotsman or an order to an ally. He’d returned from the Scottish engagement only that afternoon – not positively ill, she’d determined – but cold, weary, soaked in rain to the very bones, and sporting fresh wounds. He’d gone to bed within ten minutes of his arrival, and had for all the hours since been engaged in this uneasy battle in his mind.

Kate stared blankly at him, unsure what to do. Waking her short-tempered, highly-trained, wound-up husband from his well-earned repose was a terrible plan, but she was determined to be there when he woke, to fully invoke the comforting presence of home. She settled into her chair beside the fire, book in hand, to wait. But patience was not Kate Percy’s greatest virtue.

Next thing she knew, she was gently startled awake by the sound of Harry’s voice calling her name, and the warm weight of his hand on her shoulder.

“You’re awake,” she grinned up where he stood beside her chair. She tilted her head mildly toward the bed where he’d been thrashing. “Did you win the battle?”

He grinned weakly, the memory sharp. “Whenever _don’t_ I, my love?” 

He took a shuddering breath, rubbing his free hand across his face. “And all well? No new wounds?” Kate pressed.

“All well,” he confirmed, “though I am a little hungry.”

“There’s bread downstairs,” said Kate, turning back to her book as she felt his hand leave her. But it was gone only an instant, and next second was slipped into her own hand, and pulling her to her feet.

He held it firmly all the way down the stairs, pausing once to scratch Lady behind the ears. And in answer to her glance of confusion he merely shrugged, “Who likes to eat alone?”


	3. Hotspur and Douglas share a drink at New Year's - 1 Henry IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For tumblr user @skeleton-richard, who requested platonic Hotspur and Douglas with "over a beer bottle" (for a 'saying I love you' meme)! This is implicitly set in some indeterminate probably WWII AU.

“France is _stupid_ ,” Harry repeated for the tenth time, his jaw and fists clenched tight, and Douglas did his best to suppress a laugh. Harry didn’t have anything especially against France, he knew: he just hated everywhere that wasn’t his home in Northumberland. London was especially ridiculous, but he qualified from time to time that Wales was _occasionally_ tolerable if his wife was with him – and eventually, to mark solidarity with his brother-in-arms, he agreed to reserve judgment on the parts of Scotland he had not seen.

If he was honest, Douglas wasn’t especially thrilled to be in run-down pub in France himself. He missed Scotland especially desperately during the holidays, and even few days’ leave centered on New Years’ Eve wasn’t doing much to raise his spirits. He would only ever get back there if the war ended – and only then if he lived through it. And both seemed dim and distant possibilities. It almost amazed him to see the rest of their company merry-making so heartily. Certainly it was a rare chance in wartime, but as he looked away from a young private cheerfully shaking the hands of a large band of tipsy Americans, and some idiot drunkenly trying to chat up a native in extremely broken French, he found his heart too heavy to join in.

“What do they even _know_?” Harry was barreling on, draining good third of his beer in one almighty gulp. He had not ceased to speak this whole time, though Douglas had heard little of it. “They surrender even war they ever fight, don’t they? Bloody cowards, aren’t they? Not like us! We’d rather die, wouldn’t we? Rather _die_ than be cowards!”

So death was on Harry’s mind quite a lot as well. How could it not be? Though he’d said nothing at all about his wife, he knew she dwelt very near. Thinking of death meant thinking of never seeing her again, and that anguish was what fueled his bitter tirades, the tension emanating from his clenched fists and the never-ceasing tapping of his feet. “Rather die,” Douglas agreed with a smile.

“I tell you another thing,” Harry continued, heartened to get agreement, “If they’d invaded _us_ first, this war would already be over.” He clapped Douglas heartily on the back. “Those Germans bastards wouldn’t know how to deal with Northern men!”

“Aye,” Douglas agreed, more heartily, “in Scotland we don’t know what fear means!”

Harry laughed in delight, a little louder than that comment perhaps warranted, and draped an arm unsteadily over his shoulder; Douglas was reminded that Harry actually had hilariously low alcohol tolerance. Something that, as a Scotsman, he felt obliged to mock him for. But before he could, something interrupted him. Several voices, singing.

_Should auld acquaintance be forgot,_

_and never brought to mind?_

_Should auld acquaintance be forgot,_

_and auld lang syne?_

He whirled around, saw that that clock had indeed struck midnight, and saw that it was the pack of Americans who had struck up, but soon others began to join in their little Scots ballad. He found himself making a toast with Harry, singing loudly and proudly.

_We'll tak' a cup o' kindness yet,_

_for auld lang syne!_

There was something about hearing the Scots so far from home, something about hearing the words of his national poet, spread merrily, a testament of brotherhood, among all these allies, that went to his heart. And something of it must have shown on his face, because Harry had taken his shoulder with a very intense expression and said, “We’re gonna be heroes! We’re gonna _come home_ heroes!” He was blasting beer-scented breath into Douglas’s face, but he bowed his head a moment, caught his breath, and said, in a much soberer voice, “I love you, man.”

Douglas grinned in amusement, shaking his head and swallowing his last mouthful. “Idiot,” he breathed softly. But not a second later, he had added, “You, too.”


	4. Hotspur/Kate rescuing kittens in the rain - 1 Henry IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For tumblr user @skeleton-richard, who requested Katespur with "as we huddle together, the storm raging outside" for the same 'I love you' meme! This is probably some indeterminate Modern AU.

“Kittens?” Harry asked his wife incredulously.

“Yes,” she said, “the mother just showed up and had them in the woodpile. Look, I just want to be sure they’re safe from the dogs is all. And it’s starting to rain, too.”

Harry shrugged and raised an exhausted arm toward her, and she instantly grabbed it and pulled him to his feet. “Lead the way, my love.”

They had tramped about halfway across their large property toward the woodshed when the first lightning struck. The flash of light got no reaction but the tremendous boom that followed made Harry jump a foot in the air.

“Lord in heaven,” he muttered, trying to catch his breath, unnerved and slightly embarrassed. Kate knew war had a made him a little wary of loud noises that he wasn’t creating himself. She said nothing. She felt if she tried to take his hand he might snap at her. “What do you want to bet,” Harry wondered with a forced smile in his voice, quickening his pace toward the shed, “that Glendower insists this was all his doing? All that _heavens on fire_ nonsense?”

Kate laughed, but it was interrupted by anther loud rumble. Harry stayed quiet this time, but there was still a thrill that ran through him unconsciously, automatically. Kate ran up closer to him and took his hand, but kept it to the pretext that she merely wanted to catch up and keep pace with him. He looked surprised a moment, then smirked gleefully and pulled her with him to run the last twenty feet to the shed.

The interior was cold and damp, but much drier than outside, and there wasn’t much space to navigate around the massive woodpile. One of the dogs, Lady’s youngest son, a wild young thing, was growling at the woodpile like it was threatening him.

“Eh, back off,” Harry told the dog, giving him a few pats on the shoulder. He seized a nearby stick from the ground and hurled it as far as he could out into the field, and the dog instantly abandoned interest in the woodpile and bolted after it. “Now – to find a kitten in a woodpile . . .”

But the thunder solved that problem for them. Another giant boom, another shudder, and in the seconds following, many soft little mews of fright. Harry carefully began shifting wood aside to uncover where they were hiding. He stripped off his jacket and reached his hands in and pulled out a tiny little grey kitten, which he laid on his jacket. “The rest’ve got to be close by,” he told Kate shakily, “but do you suppose the mother’s still around?”

Next second answered his question, however, as the mother cat promptly traipsed out from underneath the woodpile with another kitten in her mouth, and deposited it delicately on Harry’s coat beside its sibling. In short order, she brought out two more, and then stared up at Harry expectantly.

“That must be all of them,” Kate whispered, entranced at the sight. She reached down tentatively to pat the mother cat, who backed up warily, but did nothing to remove her kittens from their place on Harry’s coat. She continued to stare up at Harry, who looked puzzled a moment, and then gave the cat a slow nod.

Another roar of thunder sounded; Harry, again unprepared, felt and involuntary spasm run through his body. With the lightning came a greater volume of rain and the sound of it beating against the roof of the shed became almost deafening as the wind picked up and whipped bitterly at through the open door. Harry pulled it swiftly shut and Kate immediately melted into his arms, but they were both shivering slightly now.

“So – we gonna keep them?” Harry asked when they had settled into a semi-comfortable sitting position on a few upended try logs. Though he was trying to sound casual, matter-of-fact, Kate was pleased to sense that there was a tinge of longing and hope to his voice. He _wanted_ to keep them – wanted it badly.

“Of course, my dear,” Kate grinned, squeezing him tighter as the thunder raged on outside their tiny, damp, mewing refuge. “And we can tell Glendower the heavens were on fire just because some _kittens_ were born!”

The devious delight on Harry’s face as he laughed at this suggestion was well worth any amount of rain. “Lord, Kate,” he said, as his laughter died away, cupping her face in his hands, “how I love you!”


	5. Hotspur meets his baby daughter - 1 Henry IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Also written for @skeleton-richard after we discussed the historical Hotspur's family. Warning for tooth-rotting fluff.

Harry had barely been able to focus for days. He could not be remiss in his duties, of course, but his mind and his heart, for once, were leagues away from the battlefield. The irony that his mind would often linger on the battlefield when his body was at home was not lost on him. The second the troops were disbanded from this battle, he mounted his grey steed an rode for home all through the night. The poor horse was getting very tired, but she would have her rest when Harry did. Their thoughts were in sync. They both wanted to be home.

Alnwick stood fair and tall as ever in the mists of Northumberland, but for once he did not pause to admire it, was barely looking as he tied up his horse and made for the house. The second he was indoors, he was running, shouting, “WHERE IS MY DAUGHTER?”

He arrived in the doorway of his bedroom, panting, to see Kate and little Harry sitting on the bed and grinning up at him. Kate held a little bundle in her arms.

“Is she – is she --?” Harry didn’t even know what he was asking. His legs and his hands and his voice all shook as he crossed the final few feet from the door the bed, as little Harry bounded to him for a one-armed hug.

“She is,” Kate grinned. “Harry, dear, meet Elizabeth Percy.”

Harry kneeled on the ground and held out his arms to his daughter. Kate gently passed her over and he got his first good look at her. There had never been any doubt that she would be the most beautiful thing he had ever seen – lovely as her mother, sweet as Lady, bright and pure and perfect as honor itself. It was somehow even more than he’d imagined, and his face crumpled again the unbearable weight of his love.

“Aw,” Kate intoned sympathetically, rubbing his shoulder.

“She’s – she’s –” Harry began, looking up into Kate’s eyes, but again, he found he couldn’t really finish. Words were failing him so spectacularly today, worse than normal, but Kate, as ever, seemed to understand.

“I know,” she said, her own tears falling down her chin.

Harry stood abruptly and took Kate in his arms, kissing her wordlessly, and then Elizabeth and then her again, holding little Elizabeth securely between them. They shifted on the bed until they were laying comfortable, limbs tangled together, one of each of their arms supporting their precious daughter. Harry held out his arm on the other side, welcoming little Harry to join him there.

“That there’s your little sister, Harry,” his father told him. “Isn’t she lovely, my boy?”

“Sister,” said little Harry thoughtfully. He reached over to hold one of Elizabeth’s tiny hands. His eyes scanned her curiously. And then, to both his parents’ surprise, he began to hum a tune. It was the one they had son to him, his lullaby – Suo Gân – and though he didn’t know the words, both his parents stared in awe.

“She’s alright, then?” Kate asked her son. “Your sister? You like her?”

After a momentary pause, little Harry nodded. “Alright.”


	6. Enjolras gets a hug - Les Miserables

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written as a pick-me-up bit of fluff for tumblr user @mynameisremyiamadumbass when it was roundly determined that Enjolras needed a hug!

Enjolras stood in the doorway of the Café Musain, and wondered if he ever would again. All the staff had gone home, entrusting him to lock the door behind him when they were finished, and his friends had been slowly filtering out since. Everything was in place for tomorrow – supplies were assembled and hidden, the plan of action drilled as clearly as possible into all of their skulls; there was nothing more to do or plan – but all of them were rather reluctant to leave.

He could understand that; they must all be wondering the same thing, and trying to cherish these hours together, the last they were sure to have. It had made the evening a deal more sentimental than usual. Jehan had tried to sing a song of brotherhood, but gotten too choked up to continue, and Grantaire and Bahorel had immediately taken him in their arms to comfort him. Combeferre kept taking his glasses off to scrub them clean, and was unnaturally quiet.

Eventually, after Grantaire had fallen into a light drunken slumber before the fire, and Musichetta had actually thrown a pebble at their window to demand her own rights to Joly’s promised time, the rest seemed to rouse and realize they ought to go, too – ought to be rested, ought to put their affairs in order.

They all tried to smile at him as they passed him by, all pressing his hands warmly, but few hand words to go with their smiles – not even Jehan, whose lower lip was still trembling, but whose smile, despite all, was warm as a spring day. Bahorel clapped him on the back so hard it nearly buckled his knees. Grantaire was almost subdued as he stumbled past, muttering something about, “going off into this nightmare, then!” with an only slightly sardonic smile.

“Passing through nightmare, to claim our good dream!” Combeferre corrected him, following him out. Grantaire waved a dismissive hand and staggered off. Now only Combeferre and Courfeyrac, his two lieutenants, remained.

“Our aim is true, Enjolras,” Combeferre stated, turning to him and seizing his hand. “Tomorrow, we claim the future!” He ducked his head slightly, and held his hand slightly longer than usual, as if not finished speaking. But next second, he only raised his eyes, smiled tightly, gave his hand one last hearty shake, and turned away down the road home. Enjolras watched as he quickly caught up to Grantaire, and now had a hand on his back to keep him upright.

Now only Courfeyrac remained. He was sitting at a table, and the cup in front of him was empty, but he hadn’t moved. He, too, was staring after Combeferre’s vanishing back.

Enjolras opened his mouth to say something to him – that it was getting late, perhaps, that there was no need to stay, that he ought to be rested tomorrow, that he’d lock up – but suddenly the words died in his throat. For a split second he wondered if he was getting Joly’s cold; his throat hadn’t bothered him up to now. But then, coming late as usual, was the realization that no, nothing was wrong with his health. He just didn’t actually want Courfeyrac to leave him alone.

Nonetheless, the abruptness of his aborted speech seemed to rouse Courfeyrac from his own reverie, and he stood, somewhat awkwardly. Courfeyrac usually moved with a natural grace and ease, so it was profoundly _unnatural_ for him to do anything awkwardly. Somehow, just watching him just now, unusually nervous and uncomfortable with the situation – a situation of his, Enjolras’s, own making –was wringing Enjolras’s heart. What in the _hell_ was the matter with him?

“I ought to be checking in on Marius, I suppose,” Courfeyrac muttered softly. “He has been _unusually_ out of sorts, poor fellow!” He chuckled in a soft, enforced, half-manic laugh. “No doubt, more of this unrequited love lark!”

Enjolras nodded mechanically as Courfeyrac came out of the café and closed the door behind him. He couldn’t say a word in response as he dutifully bolted the door – he wasn’t sure if one was expected anyway – but he found even the familiar sound of Courfeyrac’s laughter was making his throat feel tighter. He’d found such a bright ensemble of merry, animated, vivacious fellows, who loved and embraced life so _fiercely_ – and tomorrow, because of _him_ and his obstinate, take-no-prisoners ideals, they might never –

“Enjolras?”

Enjolras raised his downcast eyes to find Courfeyrac observing him in concern. His eyes must have looked sufficiently wretched, for next moment, Courfeyrac had pulled him into a tight embrace.   


The tightness in his chest nearly bubbled over then. He returned the embrace stiffly, but Courfeyrac’s embrace was natural, soft, with much rubbing of his back. It felt – good. It felt freeing. “Courfeyrac,” he managed at last, “I – tomorrow –”

“No one will regret it, Enjolras,” Courfeyrac whispered firmly in his ear, “no matter what happens. No one will regret following you.”

Enjolras took a deep breath and tightened his grip on Courfeyrac. They stayed that way for a long, long moment.


	7. Les Amis pretend to be teachers - Les Miserables

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Also written for tumblr user @mynameisremyiamadumbass, who made the barest reference to "Grantaire Appreciation Day" and I took a LOT of liberties from there!

Combeferre, Feuilly and Enjolras were all hunched over the table in the back room of the Café Musain, in serious consultation of the wording of their latest manifesto to be taken to the printers’. Enjolras was grinning faintly – out all of his friends, these two were the least likely to let women or booze or even artistic excitement or personal problems interfere with their focus on the cause, and today’s progress had been swift and efficient. 

Suddenly, the thudding of urgent, ungainly footsteps approached, and they all tensed and raised their eyes to the door in anticipation. The sound had been so loud and forceful that they were all surprised when it was Jehan who appeared in the doorway, pale-faced, clinging to the doorframe, and gasping for breath.

“Jehan? What is it?” wondered Feuilly, approaching him in concern.

“I was – just – talking to –” Jehan panted, leaning over and bracing his hands on his knees.

“Catch your breath first,” Combeferre advised, laying a calming hand on his shoulder. Jehan nodded vaguely and held them all in suspense as he inhaled.

“To an inspector!” he said at last, straightening up. “He seemed – suspicious – heard some rumor! He was asking – questions – about our organization – ‘What is the aim and purpose of the Friends of the ABC?’ I told him – we teach poor children – teach them to read! ABCs, you know! Then he asked – where? Where we met – and did our teaching! And – I – I panicked, I thought – I’d better not say _here_ – so I said – the Café Corinthe! And he’s going there – now! And I’m – I’m _sorry_ ,” his contrite eyes were more on Enjolras than the others, “I didn’t know what to say – I panicked.”

They all glanced at each other anxiously.

“Is anyone there now?” Combeferre wondered.

“It’s too late for breakfast –”

“They might all be in class –”

“Though it’s possible – Bahorel or Grantaire –”

“But if he questions the staff, poor old Mère Hucheloup – might not know what to say,” Feuilly concluded uneasily.

“I’m sorry,” Jehan repeated, ducking his eyes.

“It’s alright,” Enjolras told him firmly, “you did nothing wrong. We’ve just got to go there now – and pray God we can get him off the scent.”

This was all the incentive they needed to be on their way. They even sprung for a carriage ride just to get them there faster and stand a better chance of catching the inspector and minimizing the possible damage to their cause – not to mention their lives.

With terror hammering in each of their hearts to varying degrees, the four of them poured through the door and came upon a surprising sight.

Grantaire, fists raised in front of his face, was mock-sparring – the blows connecting but ever-so-lightly – with a scrawny, ragged young boy who sometimes delivered messages for them, whilst the inspector, tall, imposing, and in full uniform, stood to the side and watched the proceedings with a puzzled expression. There was a faint blush to Grantaire’s cheeks that someone who didn’t know him might have taken for exertion or embarrassment, but he seemed, on the whole, but minimally impaired; he had the presence of mind to subtly roll his hastily-hidden wine bottle further behind the counter with his foot as he passed. He allowed the boy to get a good mock-hit on face, before tumbling dramatically to the floor in response as the boy cheered his victory, and then straightening up and smiling pleasantly to the inspector.

“So you see,” he panted, “how he’s improving in his self-defense lessons! Now, I may be biased, Monsieur Inspector, but to _my_ mind, self-defense is one of the most important skills for our students to learn! Though the others –” his eyes turned upon his four friends at last, and his grin widened – “are sure to correct me! Monsieur, might I introduce our afternoon teachers?”

The inspector turned to look at the four of them. Combeferre faintly raised a hand in greeting, and Grantaire therefore honed in on him as the calmest and most ready to convincingly play his part.

“This is Monsieur Combeferre,” he said, indicating him. “He teaches anatomy and other sciences. Fantastically gruesome stuff! Talking for hours about blood and bones!”

“Pleased to meet you, sir,” Combeferre greeted the inspector, shaking his hand. He turned pleasantly to the raggedy boy. “Can you tell the inspector what you call the bones in your fingers?”

“Knuckles!” the boy shot back.

“He prefers boxing to science,” Combeferre informed the inspector ruefully. “We’re working on it. Though it’s a testament to my honored colleague Monsieur Grantaire’s skill, I’m sure. He also teaches art.”

“Art and science?” the inspector wondered, tilting his head. “And self-defense? I was given to believe you were teaching them to read!”

“We here of the Friends of ABC believe in a balanced education,” Feuilly put in. He, too, held out his hand to shake the inspector’s. “In started with just literacy, but we’ve since expanded our aims. I’m Monsieur Feuilly; I teach woodworking and handicrafts. And here, you’ve met Monsieur Prouvaire. He helps our advanced readers to reach a higher understanding of literature and poetry; sometimes they write their own!”

“And he teaches the Bible in Hebrew _and_ Greek! Quite a polymath, our Monsieur Prouvaire,” Grantaire added fondly, causing Jehan to hastily withdraw the hand he was extending to the inspector and use it to quickly hide his furiously-blushing face.

“And _this_ ,” Grantaire went on as his eyes fell with their regular glowing admiration on Enjolras, who had been standing like a statue watching the proceedings, “is the chief and foundation of our _whole_ enterprise, Monsieur Enjolras!”

Enjolras gave him a slight nod and shook his hand mechanically, but said nothing.

“And – what do you teach, Monsieur Enjolras?” the inspector asked, his expression unreadable.

“History,” he replied swiftly. “French history – especially of the last century – is my specialty, and quite enough to fill a whole course, I daresay, but Monsieur Feuilly has persuaded me to expand the area of study across centuries and continents – to have a more whole and complete picture of the world.”

“The way he _tells_ those stories,” Jehan put in shyly, “why, he puts you _there_ , in the shoes one living in that moment! To listen to them is to be _enthralled_ by some fey creature! His is the magic to transport one across time and space!”

“I can see why _he_ teaches poetry,” the inspector muttered.

“Monsieur Prouvaire is right,” the boy added suddenly, dashing over to Enjolras and clinging to his leg. “Monsieur Enjolras’s stories are amazing! His class is my _favorite_ – after boxing, of course!” Enjolras awkwardly patted the boy’s shoulder.

“It’s true,” added Mère Hucheloup, ducking her head out of the kitchen, “Even _I_ get distracted in my serving by dear Monsieur Enjolras’s history lessons!”

The boy faced down the inspector and continued. “I was one of the first students to learn with the Friends the ABC! Back when it was just Monsiers Enjolras and Combeferre teaching reading! Monsieur Enjolras taught me my ABCs – right at that table over there!”

There was a silence as they all gazed intently at the inspector’s impassive face – even Mère Hucheloup had paused in laying out oysters – and collectively willed him to believe their elaborate castle of lies and half-truths. He gazed from face to face and seemed to be reading for nerves or lies in each of them. They each internally trembled for Jehan’s exceptionally timid manners and propensity for blushing. But his inner valor upheld him, and his face stayed pale, and he did not duck his eyes.

At last, the inspector completed his sweep, he gave a soft breath of satisfaction, and slightly smiled. Five pairs of tensed shoulders relaxed.

“Is there anything else, Inspector?” Combeferre said. “Only our afternoon students will be arriving in twenty minutes, and we really must prepare!”

“And the sort of children we teach,” Feuilly made bold to add, “are sometimes afraid of the police! They might not show up today if they see you here!”

“Er – yes, alright,” the inspector agreed awkwardly. “I’ll be going, and I’ll tell them at the precinct that we’ve nothing to fear from the Friends of the ABC, that they’re but a lot of harmless dreamers – who in my opinion,” he added, casting a dubious glance at the ragged boy now holding Enjolras’s hand, “are wasting considerable talent on this sort of riffraff!”

Enjolras’s outrage at this comment managed to confine itself to tightening his grip on the boy’s hand and clenching his fist; but Feuilly’s expression darkened dangerously.

“Now, see here, Inspector,” he said, stepping up two paces closer to the man. “To educate is to deliver a soul out of darkness, and to offer a chance at a life of use and light and joy and purpose! Do you say we should condemn every poor man’s child to darkness? Dismiss this whole class of people, as not worth consideration?”

“It is our philosophy,” Combeferre added, “that education – the illumination of all minds into greater truth and understanding – will bring light and progress to all the peoples of the world; thus, starting in childhood, and not excluding any class of child, is vital for the progress of the human race.”

The inspector gave a sort of snort, his mouth upturned in a somewhat derisive smile. “What did I say?” he shrugged, “Dreamers! Harmless dreamers!” And without another word, he turned on his heel and left the café.

Jehan immediately sunk down into a chair. The urchin ran to window and stuck his tongue out at the inspector’s departing back. Combeferre and Enjolras confined themselves to sighs of relief. Grantaire, also sitting, said, “I need a drink.”

“You and me both, brother,” Feuilly said fervently, clapping him on the back and going to pick up his hidden wine bottle. “I think perhaps we _all_ do. Mère Hucheloup, some more cups, if you please!”

“Do you know,” Combeferre said softly to Enjolras as they watched Feuilly accepting the cups and pouring out the wine, “I rather _liked_ the idea – all of us as teachers! Molding young minds! I had _myself_ half-convinced!”

“In the new world – in the Republic,” Enjolras promised him, “that will be the way. When that day comes, I freely pass my torch to you – in your hands, the light of illumination!”

Jehan, during this exchange, had risen to his feet and gone to the window to join the boy. “You _saved_ us,” he told him earnestly. “The Friends of the ABC will forever be in your debt! Here,” he added, reaching into his pocket and handing the boy an entire five-franc coin, “get yourself something nice!” The boy excitedly rushed to the counter to buy himself a pastry.

“And he’s not the only who saved us!” Feuilly added as he passed the cups into each of their hands. “Without Grantaire’s being here, his quick thinking and adaptability, we’d be lost!”

“Certainly, we would!” agreed Jehan, smiling warmly at him.

“Oh – oh, _really_ ,” Grantaire dismissed, ducking his own head and trying not to look too pleased by this praise, “it was nothing, my friends – nothing, really!”

“It was _far_ from nothing,” Feuilly assured him heartily. “Gentlemen, let’s raise our glasses – to Grantaire!”

“To Grantaire!” they all echoed, smiling at him.

Grantaire’s face was rather blank as he observed his friends – it was, like the inspector’s scanning over each one as if to ascertain this was real. As they knew it would, it settled last of all on the fair countenance of Enjolras, a desperate question in his eyes. To reassure him, Enjolras raised his glass a fraction of an inch again, widened his smile gave him a little nod. At last, Grantaire’s face relaxed and reflected his smile, and they all drank deep.

Next second, Bahorel burst into the shop, greeting them with a shout of, “Afternoon, my friends! ARE WE ALL READY TO _SMASH_ THE GOVERNMENT?!?”

Jehan choked on his wine, and fell out of his chair.

**Author's Note:**

> Again, really hope you've enjoyed these! Thanks for reading! Leave a comment on any chapter you liked, or hit me up at my tumblr, windmilltothestars! <3 I LOVE LOVE LOVE to get minific requests (mostly fairly chill/innocent Gen, though ships are a case-by-case basis what I'm comfortable with.) So feel very free to write or talk or request whatever! 
> 
> Have a lovely day! :)


End file.
